CHAPTER SIX.

PEN'S PATIENT.

Punch's appealing sign was sufficient to chase away the imaginative notions that had beset Pen's awakening. His hand went at once to the water-bottle slung to his side, and, as he held the mouth to his comrade's lips and forgot the pain he suffered in his strained and stiffening joints, he watched with a feeling of pleasure the avidity with which the boy drank; and as he saw the strange bird flit by once more he recalled having heard of such a bird living in the west country.

"Yes," he said to himself, "I remember now--the dipper. Busy after water-beetles and perhaps after tiny fish.--You are better, Punch, or you wouldn't drink like that;" and he carefully lowered the boy's head as he ceased drinking. "Yes, and though I can't hear you, you have come to your senses again, or you would not look at me like that.--Ah, I forgot all about them!" For a sound other than that produced by the falling waters came faintly to his ear. It was from somewhere far above, and echoed twice. "Yes, I had forgotten all about them."

He began looking anxiously about him, taking in the while that he was close to the river where it ran in a deep, precipitous gully; and as he looked up now to right and then to left, eagerly and searchingly, for the danger that he knew could not be far away, his eyes ranged through densely wooded slopes, lit up here and there by the morning sunshine, and always sweeping the sides of the valley in search of the vedettes, but without avail, not even the rugged mule-path that ran along the side being visible.

"They are not likely to see us here," Pen said to himself, "and they can't have seen me coming down. Oh, what a job it was! I feel as if I must have been walking in my sleep half the time, and I am so stiff I can hardly move. But I did it, and we must be safe if we can keep out of sight; and that ought to be easy, for they are not likely to come down here. Now, what's to be done?"

That was a hard question to answer; but growing once more full of energy now that he was satisfied that there was no immediate danger, Pen stepped back lamely, as if every muscle were strained, to his companion's side, to be greeted with a smile and a movement of the boy's lips.

"Now, let's see to your wound," he said, with his lips to the boy's ear; and he pa.s.sed one hand under Punch's wounded shoulder to try and turn him over. This time, as Punch's lips parted and his face grew convulsed with pain, Pen's ears mastered the roar, and he heard the sufferer's cry.

"Hurt you too much?" he said, as he once more put his lips to the boy's ear.

The answer was a nod.

"Well," thought Pen, "he must be better, so I'll let him be; but we can't stop here. I must try and get him through the trees and away from this horrible noise. But I can't do it now. At least, I don't think I can. Then, what's next?"

The inaudible reply to the question came from somewhere inside, and he bent closer over Punch once more.

"Aren't you hungry?" he roared in his ear.

The boy shook his head.

"Well, I am," shouted Pen.--"Oh, how stupid! This is like telling the enemy where we are, if they are anywhere within hearing. Hullo, what does this mean?" For he suddenly caught sight of the goat springing from stone to stone low down the stream as if coming to their side of the rushing water; and with the thought filling his mind that a tame goat like this must have an owner who was more likely to be an enemy of strangers than a friend, Pen began searching the rugged slopes on both sides of the river, but in vain. The goat, which had crossed, was now coming slowly towards them, appearing to be quite alone, though soon proving itself to be quite accustomed to the presence of human beings, for it ended by trotting over the sand and shingle at the river's edge till it had approached them quite closely, to stand bleating at them, doubtless imploringly, though no sound was heard.

This lasted for a few minutes, and then the goat moved away, pa.s.sing Punch, and disappearing upward through the dense growth, and apparently making its way up by the side of the great fall.

No sooner was it out of sight than a thought struck Pen; and, making a sign to his companion that meant "I won't be long," he shouldered his rifle and began to climb upwards in the direction taken by the goat.

He was beginning to regret now that he had not started sooner, for there was no sign of the little beast, and he was about to turn when, just to his right, he noted faint signs of what seemed to be a slightly used track which was easy to follow, and, stepping out, he observed the trees were more open, and at the end of a few minutes he found himself level with the top of the falls, where the river was gliding along in a deep, gla.s.sy sheet before making its plunge over the smooth, worn rocks into a basin below.

He had just grasped this when he saw that the faint track bore off to the right, and caught sight of the goat again moving amongst the trees, and for the next few minutes he had no difficulty in keeping it in sight, and, in addition, finding that it was making for what seemed to be the edge of another stream which issued from a patch of woodland on its way to the main torrent.

"I must get him here if I can," thought Pen, for the roar of the falling waters was subdued into a gentle murmur, and to his surprise he caught sight of a shed-like building amongst the trees, fenced in by piled-up pieces of stone evidently taken from the smaller stream which he approached; and it was plain that this was the spot for which the goat had been making.

The young rifleman stopped short, trying to make out whether the place was inhabited; but he could see no sign save that the goat was making for the stone fence, on to which the active beast leaped, balanced itself carefully for a few moments, and then sprang down on the other side, to be greeted by a burst of bleating that came from apparently two of its kind within.

Pen stood screened by the trees for a time, fully expecting to see some occupant of the hut make his appearance; but the bleating ceased directly, and, approaching carefully, the young private stood at last by the rough stone wall, looking down on a scene which fully explained the reason for the goat's visit.

She had returned to her kids; and after climbing the wall a very little search showed the visitor that the goat and her young ones were the sole occupants of the deserted place.

It was the rough home of a peasant who had apparently forsaken it upon the approach of the French soldiery. Everything was of the simplest kind; but situated as Pen Gray was it presented itself in a palatial guise, for there was everything that he could wish for at a time like that.

As before said, it was a shed-like structure; but there was bed and fireplace, a pile of wood outside the door, and, above all, a roof to cover those who sought shelter.

"Yes, I must bring him here somehow," thought Pen as he caught sight of a cleanly scrubbed pail and a tin or two hanging upon nails in the wall.

But he saw far more than this, for his senses were sharpened by hunger; and with a smile of satisfaction he hurried out, noting as he pa.s.sed them that the kids, keen of appet.i.te, were satisfying their desire for food; and, hurrying onwards, he made his way back to where he had left his companion lying in the dry, sandy patch of shingle; and some hours of that forenoon were taken up in the painful task of bearing the wounded lad by slow degrees to where, after much painful effort, they could both look down upon the nearly hidden shed.

"How are you now, Punch?" asked Pen, turning his head upwards.

There was no reply.

"Why, Punch," cried Pen, "you are not asleep, are you?"

"Asleep!" said the boy bitterly; and then, in a faint whisper, "set me down."

Pen took a step forward to where he could take hold of a stunted oak-bough whose bark felt soft and strange; and, holding tightly with one hand, he held his burden with the other while he sank slowly, the branch bending the while till he was kneeling. Then he slid his load down amongst the undergrowth and quickly opened his water-bottle and held it to the boy's lips.

"Feel faint, lad?" he said.

Again there was no answer; but Punch swallowed a few mouthfuls.

"Ah, that's better," he said. "Head's swimming."

"Well, you shall lie still for a few minutes till you think you can bear it, and then I want you to get down to that hut."

Punch looked up at him with misty eyes, wonderingly.

"Hut!" he said faintly. "What hut?"

"The one I told you about. You will be able to see it when you are better. There's a rough bed there where you will be able to lie and rest till your wound heals."

"Hut!"

"Oh, never mind now. Will you have some more water?"

The boy shook his head.

"Not going to die, am I?" he said feebly.

"Die! No!" cried Pen, with his heart sinking. "A chap like you isn't going to die over a bit of a wound."

"Don't," said the boy faintly, but with a tone of protest in his words.

"Don't gammon a fellow! I am not going to mind if I am. Our chaps don't make a fuss about it when their time comes."

"No," said Pen sharply; "but your time hasn't come yet."

The boy looked up at him with a peculiar smile.

"Saying that to comfort a fellow," he almost whispered; "only, I say, comrade, you did stick to me, and you won't--won't--"

"Won't what?" said Pen sharply. "Leave you now? Is it likely?"

"Not a bit yet," said the poor fellow faintly; "but I didn't mean that."